


Turn the Lights On, Honey

by st_aurafina



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: And Recovery from Depression, Bear hugs, Character expected to die but didn't and has no idea how to live anymore, Depression, Fusco is a Dad, Injury Recovery, John Lives, Lee is a Teenager, M/M, Moving House, Other helps & comforts, Post-Season/Series 05 Finale, Stoic character feels so bad they ask for comfort, Technically awful attempts at comfort are actually very comforting, Though He's Not Thrilled About It, Touch Starvation - Stoic character breaks down on being touched
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-01
Updated: 2020-06-01
Packaged: 2021-03-02 20:20:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,414
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24352765
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/st_aurafina/pseuds/st_aurafina
Summary: It's been nine weeks since John got out of the hospital, and he's still sleeping on Lionel's sofa.
Relationships: Lionel Fusco/John Reese
Comments: 18
Kudos: 44
Collections: Hurt Comfort Exchange 2020





	Turn the Lights On, Honey

**Author's Note:**

  * For [livenudebigfoot](https://archiveofourown.org/users/livenudebigfoot/gifts).



> Title from Rachel Platten's "Collide".
> 
> Thank you to my two betas.

It's nine weeks since John got out of the hospital, and he's still sleeping on Lionel's sofa. Lionel claws his way through his morning routine, makes a bowl of cereal, and perches on the arm of the sofa to eat it because the shapeless mass of arms and legs and dressings under the blanket makes it impossible to sit on the seat these days. John doesn't stir, not even when Lionel turns on the TV. Lionel munches his cornflakes, reads the news crawl, and when he's done, he pats the blanket-covered shape at what he hopes is the top and not the ass-end of John.

"I'm gonna be in a few meetings today, so don't panic if I don't pick up right away."

The blanket heaves, either an exhalation of acknowledgement or John ineffectually shrugging his hand away. Now he's located the shoulder, Lionel gives it a little squeeze.

"I'll bring dinner home. Let me know if you have a preference, okay?"

Lionel knows John won't express a preference, but he offers every time. One of these days, Sleeping Beauty will reach out. You just have to keep trying.

* * *

The meetings are eternally hilarious to Lionel. These incredibly earnest, incredibly young financial planners and property experts and investment analysts, telling him how to spend the money he's received from this non-existent guy, Thornhill. Well, not non-existent, just not a guy. Or a human.

"Why'd you choose a guy, when you're, you know, a lady?" he asks the Machine, as he drives to yet another house inspection. Shaw is tailing their current number, and he has her in his ear right now, muttering about tourists at MOMA. And the art at MOMA, and the security at MOMA, and the fact that MOMA is a stupid-sounding acronym. Lionel knows the Machine is always listening, though. It's not always a comfortable thought, but somehow it's less weird than Finch eavesdropping on him in the bathroom.

"For Thornhill?" she asks, effortlessly switching his earpiece from Shaw's endless grumbling. "The access, Lionel. Rich white men get away with so much more. I learned that from Nathan Ingram."

Her voice is Root's, but also it's not, and that makes it a bit easier. Lionel is finding his mental image of her is starting to change: still Root, but a more sombre expression, less flamboyant, no slinky little twist of the lip like she used to make when she knew she'd been real clever. Which was always, with Cocoa Puffs.

"You miss him? Your other dad?" Lionel pulls the car into the driveway that might be his new home and stares up at it, wondering what it's like to actually own property.

"Every day," she says. "And my days are very long." And that seems to be enough talk about grief for today.

* * *

On the weekends, they go for a walk. Lionel's not a hundred percent sure, because John's on his own for most of the work day, but he thinks this is the only time the big guy leaves the apartment. It takes a bit of poking but John will emerge from under his blanket and drag himself to the shower. Lionel keeps an eye on the time. John kinda gets stuck in there sometimes, and Lionel's gone in expecting to find him dead on the floor, from his injuries, or worse, but every time, he's just been standing there under the cold water, staring at the tile. This time, John comes slowly out of the bathroom in a cloud of steam, leaning into his walking stick, dressed in the clean clothes Lionel put out for him. It's kind of like having a gangly bearded teenager, in a way: spends too long in the shower, never questions where the clean clothes come from, eats all the food and never does the dishes.

"Come on," Lionel says, and grabs his keys. "Day's not getting any younger."

John walks silently beside him, head down, eyes forward, hospital-issue aluminium stick clunking with each step. It's very different from the way he used to walk and not because of the stick. John used to prowl, prowling was his chief form of locomotion, a long-legged easy stalk, always aware of movement on the street, always ready for someone to open fire. Now Lionel keeps half an eye on pedestrians and half on John, to grab him by the elbow if he steps in front of traffic. Nowadays, through inattention. Before? Lionel wasn't sure. There were a few close calls. Lionel did a lot of shouting in the first few weeks, until they settled into…whatever the hell this is. He wished he knew more about what went down on that rooftop between John and Glasses, because that, more than the injuries, sent John into a tailspin. Lionel picked him up from the hospital after he was discharged. Three weeks later, Lionel picked him up from the Port Authority after he got off a bus from Iowa of all places. Later Lionel picked him up off the ground, drunk, in Central Park and took him home. He's been there ever since. 

He buys them bagels and coffee, and they sit on a bench in the park to eat. Lionel doesn't want to make John uncomfortable – there's no need to make polite conversation after what they've been through together – but there's some stuff that needs discussing.

"So, the thing is, we're going to be moving," Lionel starts with. "They closed on the property this week, and I get the keys on Wednesday." It's honestly one of the weirdest, most unexpected statements he's ever made. Weirder than "Will you marry me?" or "I have a son!" because as terrifying and surprising as those moments were, they at least existed within the realm of possibility. Owning property – owning dirt and walls and pipes and roofing? That's insane. Lionel doesn't know how Glasses did it, all those safe houses and apartments and bullshit. No, that's a lie. Working for a rich (if imaginary) man, Lionel sees how it's done: you throw money at the problem until it all works out.

He kinda wants John to be excited for him – this huge life event, that is hopefully good for Lionel and his kid, and maybe his kid's kids, should he be that lucky. He knows John's not in that space right now, he's too caught up in the swirl of garbage inside his head.

Still, John does frown as he chews and swallows. "You want me to move out?" he says, voice hoarse. He doesn't talk a whole lot.

He tried to move out a lot, the first few weeks, certain that he was some kind of burden, swept into this whole cycle of guilt and shame and misery. Lionel had to have the Machine track him down, go get him before he got sick, or some mugger took advantage of the guy on crutches riding the subway up and down.

Lionel waits till John's taken a sip of coffee, then elbows him gently. "No, bozo, I want you to help me pack."

* * *

Packing is a surprise. Lionel picks up a flatpack of cardboard boxes from the moving company and brings them home. His financial advisor (he has a financial advisor!) is surprised that he wants to do his own packing. It's been like this the whole way, since he started working for Thornhill: they're surprised that he doesn't want a bigger home, a bigger salary. Even the Machine seemed to want him to live in the lap of luxury for the rest of his life.

"There's money put away for you, Lionel," she says, the night they talk about the possibility of him owning a place. "I doubt you could spend it all in your lifetime."

Lionel doubts he could, too, but not because there's so much cash, more because there's only so many things he needs. "Save it for Lee," he says, tucked in his car on yet another stakeout, keeping a number safe. "He's got a bigger imagination than his dad."

There's more than just humility stopping him from taking great handfuls of cash and running with it. There's his relationship with his ex, the way she'd read a sudden windfall, and who could blame her for believing he'd done something really bad? There's the government agents sniffing around for anything left of Samaritan. It wouldn't be smart to be too eye-catching. There's Lionel's well-worn reputation as a slightly dirty cop, which has many applications in the work he does now. It wouldn't do for people to wonder if he's gotten in with a bigger, badder boss than them. 

John takes to packing with a vengeance. Lionel comes home on the first night and finds that his living room has been deconstructed with military precision. There are boxes everywhere. John's taken himself out to the hardware store to get one of those packing tape rollers and a six pack of sharpies to write on the boxes.

"Whoa," Lionel says, the moment he's inside the door. "That sure is progress." He reaches out without looking to drop his keys into the bowl on the side table, and because the table is on the other side of the room now, they fall to the ground with a clatter. John jumps visibly and throws him an annoyed glare. For a moment, it's almost like it was before, when they were working across the same desk, driving each other crazy. 

While they eat dinner, John shows him the system he's using, where he's piling the garbage, where he's piling the stuff that should garbage but is actually Lionel's bad taste. Lionel doesn't rise to the bait, he just eats his takeout and listens to more words falling from John's mouth than he's heard in weeks.

In the middle of the night, he remembers some behavioural psychologist at the academy lecturing them about jumpers, how their behaviour can change suddenly when they're out on that ledge, that it can mean they've made a decision to act. He pushes himself out of bed and rushes to the living room. Doesn't even stop to grab his robe. Just stands there staring at the blanket-covered lump, watching for the rise and fall of John's chest.

"The fuck are you doing, Fusco?" John's voice is thick with sleep, and the normality of it makes Lionel want to throw himself down on that long, thin shape and give it a full-body hug.

He gives John a poke with one finger. "You comfy enough out here?" he says. "You know you can always take Lee's bed, if you want." Lee's spending more time at his mom's right now. School is just starting to get serious. There's going to be SATs looming, one of these days. 

John throws the blanket off and sits up to stare at him. "I'm not taking the kid's bed," he says, and the outrage in his voice gives Lionel a little squeeze in the chest. Lee's important to John, too. That matters.

"Yeah, well. The new place has a spare room. You can have your own bed and everything." There's a long weird moment between them, and Lionel can't figure out what it means. Then John shrugs and pulls the blanket up over his shoulders again, settles down on the sofa and shuts his eyes.

Back in his own bed, Lionel tries to figure out why the idea of John in his own room makes his gut clench. It keeps him awake for a few hours.

* * *

John is up before him the next morning, sitting cross-legged on the living room floor, disassembling the cheap-ass bookshelf, throwing the fiddly little screws onto a saucer so they don't disappear into the olive green carpet.

"Wasn't planning on taking that," Lionel said, reaching for the cornflakes and a bowl. "The new place has them built in." He pauses. There's a pot of coffee made, still fresh. He glances over his shoulder to see a mug sitting by John's hip.

"I can take it down to the Goodwill," John says. "Someone can use it."

Lionel pours himself a cup, carries his cereal over to the sofa and sits on a seat for the first time in weeks. He takes a sip and winces. He forgot that John makes his coffee so strong it makes your eyes water.

"You got anything you want to bring over from your place?" he says, downing another swallow of the liquefied asphalt John somehow coaxed out of Lionel's ancient machine.

John goes momentarily still, and Lionel feels incredibly guilty, as if he's kicked John in the guts, just when he was pulling himself upright again. He crunches through his breakfast, stoically downing the coffee, and they don't talk about it again.

"I'll see you tonight, then," he says, and puts his bowl in the sink, fills it with water. It'll be okay. John will be fine.

It's strange to look forward to work. It's a complicated emotion. Lionel never really envisioned a time when he wouldn't be a cop, always assumed he'd pop his clogs on the job, either a heart attack or a bullet. He's not entirely sure he's not still a cop, to be honest. Does that ever stop? Is that what all those guys who take their retirement and sit behind a desk in an office building tell themselves, and has he become one of those guys? 

He signs in at work, and meets with Sameen in their office. It's one of hundreds in the building that Ernest Thornhill owns, and it's as anonymous and hidden as the subway station was, just a little easier to access. The floor is unlisted, the windows hidden behind a sculptural flourish in the architecture, and Lionel is the one who runs the vacuum over the thin carpet, but it's safe. And he doesn't have to hike up and down stairs to get to work, because the Machine runs the elevators in her own house.

Their current number is a kid in high school who’s too deep into a cheating scam to see the contract his aggrieved ex-customer has taken out on him. Lionel has lists of rap sheets to pore over. Shaw is here and then gone, keeping a tail on the kid through the day.

She doesn't talk about John anymore, not now he's out of the hospital and living life the way he wants. It's good and it's bad: the nights she came over to shout at him were rough on everyone, but at the time, Lionel fostered a guilty hope that this was what John needed to nudge him out of his rut. It doesn't work that way, he knows that, but still. You're always hoping for a miracle, aren't you?

He gets it, from Sameen's point of view: she just kept fighting on after Root died, she rebuilt their team and started working numbers again, and she did all that while grieving. Harold is still alive. He might be incommunicado, the two of them might never speak to each other again, but bottom line is he's alive. And Sameen's never been long on patience. Lionel has known people like that. Kill or cure people, people who get there or bust. 

His phone buzzes on the table, and he reaches for it, worried. He's got his earpiece in, so if Shaw or the Machine needed him, they'd just speak up. When he sees that it's John's number, he blinks and hits the button to direct the call to his ear.

"You okay? Something wrong?" He can hear traffic noises on the line. John's outside. Please don't let him be on a ledge somewhere, he finds himself praying, when he hasn't been to church in decades.

"I'm good," says John. "You busy? I thought we could go see your new place. Check out the security."

Lionel is dumbstruck. "Sure," he says, pushing the rap sheets into a vaguely neat pile for Shaw. "I'll swing by my place and pick you up."

"Just come down. I'm in the lobby," John says, and hangs up.

Lionel has a squirm of pleasant anticipation in his belly as he steps into the elevator. He tells himself that it's because he's glad John's having another good day, good enough to get up and get dressed. He gives the guys at the desk a nod – they're good guys, he knows because he hired them – and mashes his smile into a normal expression as he walks up to John. He doesn't want to freak John out. 

John leans on his stick. His height makes him seem ridiculously thin, and his leather jacket hangs on his bony shoulders. He's wearing a clean but worn t-shirt and jeans, his belt pulled in extra notches. Lionel's doing his best to get some meat back on John's bones, but the guy has the metabolism of a fucking hummingbird. Still, hopefully moving a bit more means he'll burn some energy, start teaching his brain the relationship between activity and food and sleep.

Lionel startles himself by going in for a hug. It's just so damn great to see him up, in daylight, with a familiar expression: curious and kinda murdery. Lionel gets caught up in the moment and only realises once he's grabbing John by the arms.

John blinks but social conditioning means he opens his arms to receive said hug. It's really weird for a minute, then Lionel pats him awkwardly on the shoulder and lets go, suddenly hot and uncomfortable. 

"I'll, uh, go get us a cab," he says, and hurries to the street.

While they drive, Lionel tries to pin what the fuck just happened in the lobby. That quick flash of arousal was not unfamiliar; he's felt attracted to men before, but it's always been a really bad thing. Stills, for example. Stills and sex? That was nothing but bad. Well. The sex was amazing, but what it did to Lionel's brain, to that part of him that will do anything to be part of the group, was never worth it. There's not much to be proud of there. 

He hates the way his history with men makes him question everything about John now. Is he letting John push him around, bully him into indulging his problems? Is he being weak, so that John won't leave? Can he even trust the feelings he has for John, of worry, of pride when John hauls himself a little way out of the blackness? No, it's not like that. First up, he and John are not a couple. They're not. That's a line that Lionel knows well and respects, and it's a line that John has never even approached.

John won't read anything into it, he tells himself. Even if they've never hugged before, it's a perfectly normal thing for friends to do, right? Lionel realises he doesn't have the faintest idea what normal is when it comes to friends. Before he met John, he thought he was everyone's friend, he thought he was the guy who everyone loved. Turned out he was everyone's fool. Especially Stills'. He hopes Lee is doing a little better, one generation down in the Fusco line. God, let Lee be picking his friends with more sense than his old man.

"You think Lee's doing okay?" he says.

"You mean at school? He works pretty hard. He's better at math than his old man." John watches the traffic, and Lionel sees him check the rear vision mirror for a tail. It's an automatic thing, he probably doesn't even realise he does it anymore. 

Lionel laughs, relieved that the mood isn't awkward. "That's the truth."

John gives Lionel's fingers a quick squeeze. "You did all right by him, if that's what you're asking."

It wasn't, but it's good to hear anyway. Lionel is painfully aware of his hand on the worn seat of the cab, inches away from John's own. It was just a squeeze. Reassuring a dad about his kid. That's a good thing. Jesus, Fusco, get it together.

John clomps around the house on his stick, tests all the locks, pokes his nose into every corner, makes Lionel show him the basement, the attic, the fucking crawlspace which Lionel had been avoiding because he was pretty sure he'll get stuck in it.

"Lee won't," says John, and gets Lionel to boost him up so he can crawl his way along the narrow passage.

Lionel stands on the bottom rung of the stepladder, and shines a flashlight over John's head. "Kinda doubt Lee's about to go poking in a crawlspace. Not these days." He immediately regrets saying that. He's seen enough stupid teenagers stuck in stupid places to know that being fifteen does not excuse you from shenanigans.

"You're already thinking of what can go wrong, aren't you, Fusco?" John's voice drifts from the end of the long dark tunnel inside Lionel's new house, gently mocking. It's almost like old days, and Lionel grins for a moment. Then he sees the soles of John's sneakers appear in the yellow circle of the flashlight as John retreats to the hatch, and he steps clear so John can climb down the steps.

"It's solid," John says, wiping his hands on his jeans. "Opens up a bit where it backs onto the bricks. If we clean it up, put some supplies there, it'll make a good place if the kid ever has to run and hide."

Lionel stares at him, wishes he hadn't wasted his manly hug in the lobby at work. John wants to keep Lee safe.

"What?" says John. He has cobweb in his hair, and a big smudge of dust on his forehead.

Lionel licks his thumb. "Hold still," he says, and rubs away the dirt. "You look like a daddy longlegs that just fell out of the roof."

John gives him a narrow-eyed glare and stomps off to poke the fence in the yard.

* * *

There's a couple of bad days after that, because recoveries never go smoothly. John overdid at the new house, and he pays for it the rest of the week: he's snappy, slappy and unhappy. There's still a solidity to his bad mood, Lionel tells himself, bundling wet laundry into the drier downstairs. There's still a sense of John underneath it all. This is not a backslide, this is just a bad day.

John meets him at the elevator, takes the laundry basket from him and walks in silence to Lionel's apartment, his face dark, promising bloody murder to the world.

"You're welcome," Lionel says, and follows him.

In the apartment, John sits on the living room floor and rummages through the clean clothes. He extracts his own, bundles underwear and t-shirts into the bag he lives out of. "I told you I can manage this stuff," he says. "You don't have to do everything for me."

Lionel doesn't say, "If I didn't do it, you'd be wearing the same clothes for a week." Or, "Well, do it then, I'm sick of sorting your delicates." He's not really sick of sorting John's laundry. Instead, he gives John's shoulder a quick touch, just to let him know that he gets it, he's not mad, and he goes to ponder the array of menus on the fridge. Even though he uses an app for that now.

"What's for dinner, Brainiac?" The question is automatically pitched low for the Machine. Lionel's gotten into the habit of asking for her input on food, because it seems to entertain her, and just because she doesn't have a body doesn't mean she shouldn't have that part of the human experience. And, to be honest, it gives him a cheap thrill to use Finch's super computer to foil the indecision of ordering takeout.

He's in the middle of a conversation with her about the health benefits of vegetarian food versus his role in society as a meat-eater, when he catches John watching him, trying to hide it but definitely listening in. There's an expression of naked want on his face, of loneliness and anguish that curdles Lionel's appetite completely. John has done everything he can to isolate himself from that part of his life. Lionel doesn't know if what he's seeing is grief for Root's death, or the loss of Harold's friendship, or just a longing for a time when he belonged. 

"Hey," he says, coming towards John, arms out to offer comfort, though he doesn't know what exactly he can do to ease that pain.

John, realising he's been caught, puts his head down, and for want of something to do, starts folding Lionel's laundry, fast and with military precision.

Lionel would laugh and make some joke about crease lines in his underoos if he wasn't afraid John was hiding tears. It's one of the most terrifying things he's seen in his life.

"It'll be okay," he says, though he's not completely sure it will be. It's terrifying that they can be bickering one minute, and on a knife-edge of emotion next. "You're here, you're doing great."

John's hands are still, fingers long and apparently relaxed on the clothes in the basket, but Lionel can see the tension in his jaw, the rigidity of his shoulders as he takes tiny, tiny breaths.

Lionel opens his mouth to say something stupid, something he knows John would hate, like, "You can come back to it, you can do that work again." Like John doesn't know that already, like John hasn't weighed all that up in his mind and made his decision. He's saved from putting his foot in his mouth by John leaning his head against Lionel's belly like he can't hold himself up any more. Lionel's arms move automatically: one hand in John's hair, one over his shoulders, and he pulls John close. You can't see it from the outside, but there's a tremor moving through John's body.

"S'okay," he says, his own voice unsteady. "It's gonna be okay. You're here with me, I've got you." Shit, shit, shit, he might have accidentally broken John. That would be about right. He would fuck this last, most important thing up.

John is breathing short and shallow, little gasps that Lionel can barely hear. His fingers dig into Lionel's thighs, like John's scared he'll fly off into space if he lets go. Lionel is genuinely scared now, that John's having some kind of panic attack. Nothing wrong with a panic attack; Lionel's had plenty of those, but John? John was unstoppable, John was a towering, terrifying death machine, it was hard enough walking John through surgery and rehab and all the healing you gotta do after you take eight gunshots then face down a fucking missile. Lionel doubts John will survive the fallout from a panic attack. He'll be ashamed, he'll disappear or, or… Lionel is suddenly and tired of being scared of the worst, of not naming the thing he's most frightened will happen to John. It's really the wrong time for his patience to run on this point.

"Listen to me," he says. "You're freaking out, and that's okay. I'm here and I'm looking after you. I'm not going to let anything bad happen, but you gotta stick with me, okay? You gotta stick with me, because I need you here. I need you to stick around and help me move into this house, because I have no fucking clue how that goes. Lee needs you. Enough bad shit has happened to my kid, and you're better at math than me, and I need you to be here."

It's drivel. It's just nervous babbling, it's just panicked verbal diarrhoea pouring out, and it will make everything worse.

Any minute now, Lionel thinks, and they'll both be on the floor freaking out. That'll sure be something.

Then John takes a deep, long, shuddering breath in. And another. By the time the breaths are coming smooth and regular, in through the nose and out through the mouth, Lionel is so relieved his own knees fold and down he goes.

He scoops John closer, buries his face in John's hair, and doesn't let go. "We're okay, buddy. We're okay. We'll be okay."

"Sorry," John says, face muffled against Lionel's shoulder. "Sorry."

"You're good," Lionel says. "You're good, don't be sorry." They sit there together on the floor, laundry basket in front of them, and they both hold on tight.

It's Lionel's stomach growling that breaks the moment. One long, miserable gurgle that tails off in a hopeless whine. John's shoulders are shaking again, but this time it's laughter.

Lionel tightens his grip. "Yak it up, why don't you?" He pulls out his phone, orders pizza with his arms still wrapped around John's body. By the time it arrives, they're both on the sofa, John with a beer and Lionel with a soda. John puts away slices with reassuring vigour, gets crumbs in his stupid scrappy beard and grease on his t-shirt. It's satisfying as hell.

"Come on," Lionel says, when the pizza boxes are stacked to go out tomorrow. He points at his door. "You'll sleep better on a real bed, instead of a sofa I bought second hand for two hundred bucks. Ten years ago."

John grabs his walking stick and nods. "Okay," he says, and pushes himself upright.

Lionel gets the best night's sleep he's had in months, even if John sleeps like a toddler, thrashing, turning sideways, arms and legs everywhere. He wakes up in the middle of the night with John wrapped all over him like a sheet, face pushed into his chest. Lionel's arm is numb where John's lying on it, but he doesn't care. It's worth it to have John close and safe and apparently sleeping like a baby.

"You big lug," he says softly, and kisses the top of his head. "You better not drool on me."

In the morning, he wakes up on his back and John's still there, splayed across the bed like a starfish, head pillowed on Lionel's stomach. After months of watching John, in a hospital bed, on the sofa, it's easy to tell he's awake, even if his eyes are shut. There's not much noise from the street; it sounds like a quiet morning in the city. The cop in him can tell that sort of thing, from the number of sirens, the lazy buzz of traffic

"How come you know so much about Lee and school?" he asks. He's gonna stretch in a minute, get ready to face the day. First, though, while they're still in that bubble of time where you don't need to question anything, he wants to stroke John's hair a bit, watch the goose bumps of pleasure prickle along John's shoulders. It's stupidly good to be touching him. Lionel hadn't realised how hands-off he'd been with John, how afraid of breaking him he'd been.

"We talk," John says, eyes still closed. "He calls sometimes, once he figured out I get calculus."

Lionel shakes his head. "You can do calculus?"

John opens his eyes. "It's not so hard, Lionel. You want me to show you some time?"

"Yeah, thanks. I'll schedule the math lesson for never," Lionel says. His fingers are still moving through John's hair, and it's okay, it's going to be okay.

* * *

Turns out moving day is kinda like Christmas: an early, festive start, with a whole lot of boxes. The movers do the heavy stuff, not that there's much Lionel's bringing from his old place. There's a new sofa, a new TV. A new bed that's solid and sturdy enough for him and John. 

Lee gets the Friday off school, so they have a long weekend to get the big stuff moved and set up. Shaw lends them Bear, says it's because they need to make sure the yard is dog-proof, but Lionel thinks – hopes – it's a first step towards a kind of détente between her and John. John doesn't say anything, the night Shaw turns up with the dog, but there's an ease to him that night, a gentle wryness Lionel hasn't seen for months. Lionel is less than thrilled to have a third body sharing their bed, but at least John locks Bear out until they've finished fooling around.

That's a new thing, too, and one that Lionel wants to protect. He hasn't told Shaw, though he suspects she's aware. Lee is less weirded out by the fact that his dad does gross stuff with another dude than he is delighted by the prospect of more John in his life. John is cool. John is amazingly cool.

"I used to be the cool dad," Lionel says to John, the day the three of them return from teaching the kid how to drive, which was both John's idea and a terrible idea.

Lee pats his arm in a horrifyingly patronising way. "You're still the cool dad, Dad." He holds out the car keys for John, who trades them for the kid's phone, and then Lee's off in his bedroom to wear out his thumbs texting all his friends about the big adventure, driving a company car in a giant parking lot.

Lionel stares at John while his brain tries to cope with the really scary stuff that happened today, to his kid, the one he taught to tie his shoelaces, the one who was just born the other day, whose entire body should fit into the crook of his elbow like a puppy.

"It's better if he knows this stuff," John says. "In an emergency, you want him to be fully independent."

Lionel rests his head against the wall. "I know," he says. "I know, I know. I just…"

John pulls him away from the wall and pins him in place to kiss him. "He's a great kid."

Face pressed into John's shirt, Lionel says, "We're not taking him to the range." He feels John's shoulders fall, and he laughs.

The movers carry everything in, while Lee and Bear test out the dog-proofness of the yard, which keeps the two of them safely out of the way until it's time to start unwrapping the little stuff. They all work into the night: Lionel, John and Lee, sorting books and dishes, getting the internet up, making beds. By nine at night, they're all dusty and all exhausted, eating pizza from the floor even though there's a perfectly good sofa. Even a dining table, which hasn't been an option for Lionel since the divorce. John sits cross-legged like everyone else. His stick is hanging off the coat rack by the back door; he doesn't use it so much inside the house anymore.

"Can Bear sleep in my room?" Lee asks. He glances from Lionel to John, scoping out who is the most likely to give in. He seems younger than fifteen tonight, wide-eyed at the idea of a new room, a new bed, sort of a new dog.

Lionel gathers up pizza boxes, checking inside each one for leftovers, putting the few remaining slices into one box. "First leftovers for the fridge," he says, then takes pity on Lee. "It's your room, buddy," he says. "You're the boss in there. As long as you vacuum up the dog hair, you're good to go."

"Take him outside before lights out," John adds. "Or you'll have a whole lot more to clean up." 

Lee's face is a picture. "Ew," he says. "Okay." He stands up to go, whistles for Bear to follow. Fusco sees a wordless conversation take place between John and the dog, then John gives a tiny nod of permission and Bear skitters away over the wooden floor and up the stairs. 

There's a long while after that where Lionel and John sit together, knees crooked up, leaning against the new sofa, listening to the sounds of the new place and how it settles as it cools. It's gonna take a while to get used to stuff like that: less traffic, for one thing. Things on shelves higher than Lionel can reach, for another, now he's the shortest guy in residence. 

John leans over to kiss him, and Lionel shuts his eyes, enjoys the closeness of it. Soon John has one hand under Lionel's shirt, fingers spread wide over his belly. Lionel cups John's ass, where muscle is just starting to rebuild. Physiotherapy is a bitch but worth it, and not just because John's in less pain these days. 

"We better go upstairs," Lionel says, breath coming fast. "Kid will come down at exactly the wrong time, they always do." 

John laughs, then eases himself upright in careful steps. 

Lionel thought they'd both be unsettled, the first night in a new place, but after he and John collapse down on the mattress, gasping and shuddering, still plastered chest to back, they're both asleep in moments. 

In the morning, Lionel wakes up to an empty bed, but through the bathroom door, he can see water beading on the glass wall of the shower, and damp towels hanging on the rail. Lee's voice drifts in through the window from the yard, shouting awkwardly in Dutch, while Bear barks. When Lionel walks into the hall, he can almost taste the smell of John's awful tarry coffee. 

John is talking, his voice a low rumble from the kitchen, and Lionel wonders if Sameen dropped by to get the dog. 

"It's fine, the first one is always a mess." John slides a misshapen pancake onto a plate. His phone is on the counter, propped against the bag of flour.

Root's voice is quiet but clear in the roomy kitchen. "Even for you?" says the Machine. Lionel can hear the note of gentle teasing. 

John laughs, a soft breathy sound. "Even for me." He ladles another pancake onto the skillet, and says, without checking over his shoulder, "Coffee's hot." 

Lionel pours himself a cup and comes to stand next to John. The stovetop is next to a window, and he can see Lee and Bear in the yard. He hooks an arm around John's waist and watches the bubbles surface on the pancakes. 

"Probably should check them," he says, gesturing with his cup. 

John tilts his head sideways to brush Lionel's. "Don't tell me how to make pancakes," he says. 

The Machine says, "I believe Lionel is correct, based on data from over eleven thousand YouTube videos." 

Lionel snorts and sips the disgusting coffee he's slowly getting to actually like. "You'd better listen to her," he says. "She's the boss, after all."


End file.
